I never thought I would be in the position to be selective about my next job. Since last Summer the imperative became just get a job. Get work. Move on from this place that has been as cruel to me as it's been inspirational.
After my surgery and all related drama, I thought hard about what I do and how this career path reflects on me, my personal politics, and general interests. So, the majority of January was spent considering whether or not I could do this. Whether or not I should do this. As much physical and psychological compromise as I've undergone, it wasn't really making sense that I continue on a path to...what? When the world is collapsing around you it's hard to think that organizing art exhibitions is in any way relevant to anything of importance. This is especially true in museums, the mausoleums of idea making.
The first week in February I began sending out my resume in response to several job postings that seemed intriguing. Two of them were for positions in culturally specific institutions. I am, after all, pretty culturally specific. (To many I'm not the right kind of culturally specific but I'll save that for my next blog post in xx months.) My direct supervisor expressed her concern that I might be "limiting myself" by wanting to work in such institutions, suggesting instead that I pursue a career in a more general (READ: WHITE) place.
I still have my appendix. I believe such comments are being stored there until one day, when it is engorged with rage and disappointment, I will need it surgically removed from my body. After that? Probably my lady parts.
A few weeks ago, I went to do a few in-person interviews for a few jobs and it became clear that one of those jobs was not for me. I did not want to do it. In fact, I could never do it ever ever ever ever ever. I came to this realization halfway through the interview. As much as I wish it wasn't, this realization was kind of devastating. It means I still have my dignity and integrity. These are two things I feared were lost during one of the many demoralizing cheek kisses with yacht owners in the cold sea of money and privilege that supports The Arts In America. All of these ideas came flooding back into my mind that were hiding out in some bunker (or my soul), safe from exploitation.
I'm not interested in exploitation. Nor am I interested in ye olde notions of artistic practice and GEN X-style representation. So, I said no. If we're in late stages of capitalism then how is soulless careerism a viable lifestyle?
Blech. Suffice to say I felt empowered by my selfhood and the truth that my mind isn't as clouded by the painful desire to get out of this city as I thought.
peace,